Charming
by reenka
Summary: hot-air balloons, orange kittens, flustered looks and strange lounge music abound in this... charming little vignette. ahem. a slasher writes fluffy ron/hermione, what is the world coming to??!


disclaimer: jkr owns harry potter, ron weasley, hermione granger, and my soul  
  
warning: author not responsible for any sap-induced trauma that ensues  
  
pairing: ron/hermione, as is blatantly obvious pretty darn fast.  
  
thank you: to anyone who bothers to read. i loff intrepid readers, i do.  
  
  
  
  
~~Charming  
  
  
Hermione cracked one eye open blearily, having no clue what woke her up.  
There was a nice breeze coming out of the half-open window next to her,  
and the pale blue curtains were billowing gently against her face. It may  
have been something peculiar in the gentle August air, but.... Her eyes  
widened as she spotted something moving in the sky, which was a very pale  
blue right now, to match her curtains (it was an ungodly hour, even for  
her). She strained to see clearer, and thought she could make out... a  
balloon?  
  
Indeed, it looked like a hot air balloon, high up above the tallest tree,  
seeming to be drifting in her direction. But that was just idle fancy  
(though Hermione was still too groggy to feel foolish at her sudden  
fascination). As she watched, she became more and more certain that the  
huge balloon -was-, in fact, moving in the direction that would take it  
closer to her, and thus more visible. She smiled. This wasn't an everyday  
occurence by any means, and there was something strangely magical about  
it-- but not the usual sort of magic, nothing you could learn. Secretly,  
that sort of magic made her smile. The closer it drifted (flew? navigated?  
Hermione wasn't sure as to the proper terms to use to describe its  
flight), the more amazing it looked, a bright red-gold striped ball,  
swaying and dipping slightly, yet graceful in its awkward way.  
  
After several minutes, she was starting to feel much more awake, as well  
as confused, and almost alarmed. It was definitely seeming to be coming  
straight at her house, its trajectory unwavering, and its coloring  
suddenly awfully familiar. Could it be...? Who would...?  
  
Hermione gasped, her slightly tanned hand flying to her mouth. She  
scrambled up in her bed, sitting up on her knees, and pressing her nose to  
the window. She still couldn't make out much of anything, but those were  
definitely Gryffindor colors. She tried to rationalize it away. She was  
sure there was a perfectly ordinary reason for this, one that had  
absolutely nothing to do with her. This was just a chance morning treat, a  
marvel glimpsed in the strange, slippery moments right after awakening,  
when Hermione wasn't sure what could be true, and what was completely out  
of the question. Most of the rest of the day, she forgot ever considering  
doubting her grasp of that question, but first thing upon waking, even she  
couldn't expect herself to be all that reasonable.  
  
And thus the ensuing descent of the hot air balloon seemed to Hermione to  
be swathed in a rich, shimmering fog of complete unreality. Her eyes were  
open as wide as they would go, but she betrayed no other sign of her  
bowled over state. So it was that she was startled at the sudden, sharp  
tapping on her window. A strange, unfamiliar-looking owl was peering at  
her through the glass, its bright yellow eyes alert, and almost mocking--  
but no, couldn't be. She opened the window wider a notch, and the owl  
promptly used the opportunity to unceremoniously drop the rolled-up  
parchment onto Hermione's lap, and streak swifly away. Slowly, her fingers  
quite steady, she unrolled the parchment and peered, somewhat unseeingly,  
at the scrawled letters inside, gradually realizing, to her horror, Ron's  
somewhat hard-to-read handwriting, which said:  
  
``Dear Hermione,  
I hope you don't mind. Forgive me if I crash. This is just to let you  
know I'm coming.  
See you soon,  
  
Ron."  
  
Her cheeks reddened slightly, and Hermione felt a quite distinctive flush,  
traveling swiftly up her arms and sides, burning heedlessly up her neck.  
The nerve! Of all the... hare-brained, ridiculous, just plain -mad-.... A  
litany of silent, bewildered curses started gathering momentum in her  
mind, and in a daze, she threw on a house-robe over her pink cotton  
nightgown (a somewhat detested Christmas gift from her mother, though  
usually she just ignored whatever it was she was wearing, she felt she  
wouldn't be convincing, whatever did manage to come out of her mouth,  
wearing it). Before she knew it, she was running headlong down the  
stairs, and out the front door, veering sharply around the house to the  
back yard, where she figured would be the only place that... thing, could  
possibly land. She was resolutely not thinking of it in terms as  
affectionate and innocuous as "balloon", and her smile was definitely long  
gone at this point.  
  
She threw back her head, standing in the middle of her parents' perfectly  
manicured lawn, feeling the breeze from the balloon ("insane contraption",  
she reminded herself), getting ever-stronger, her hair beginning to fly  
randomly around her head, only feeding her growing irritation. She crossed  
her arms, and practiced her glare. It didn't take long for the contraption  
to land, seemingly magically anchored, Hermione noted distantly. It took  
even less time for Ron to leap over the edge of the basket, seeming  
breathless and excited, and perhaps only a little sheepish. Quite  
unsatisfying, as far as level of contrition, Hermione thought.  
  
He stood a safe distance away from her, his hands behind his back,  
blushing slightly but looking directly at her, and actually grinning.  
  
"What is -with- you, Ron Weasley? Have you finally gone completely barking  
mad? What... what is all of... all of -this- supposed to mean?" Hermione  
was trying hard not to shout and scream and yell her head off, but she was  
mostly failing, as usual when it came to these things.  
  
"Hey now... I knew you'd be like this, see... don't be mad. I'm sorry,  
alright?" Ron attempted what he probably thought was an angelic-looking  
smile. "I just wanted to make it up to you, Hermione. Um...."  
  
"If you think this is going to fix -anything-, you are sadly mistaken,"  
Hermione said, resorting to her imperious tone that she knew would annoy  
him.  
  
Ron's eyes flickered, but the light didn't go out. He appeared to be in an  
appallingly good mood, making Hermione feel even more sour. "So I guess  
you don't want her, then," he said, smiling in that mischievous way that  
usually melted her defenses (and he knew it). She had once called it an  
unholy twinkle. He definitely looked unholy, as he reached behind his back  
and whisked out a tiny golden-orange kitten, too young to be meowing  
much-- it had its eyes tightly shut, and was holding on his index finger  
for dear life. Hermione tried to huff, but it came out as sort of a  
sputtering, strangled laugh. Her lips were trembling and she was suddenly  
acutely aware that she was wearing thin pink cotton under her sensible  
robes. She rolled her eyes, feeling long-suffering indeed.  
  
"I named her Snitch, but you can change it if you want, it's okay," Ron  
said, as an afterthought. He was suddenly having trouble looking her  
straight in the eye, and was seeming to be closely examining the kitten.  
Hermione was keeping up her resolve, and steadfastly not looking at the  
cat. It was just a small cat. Granted it was small, and kind of orange,  
and was making small, faint sounds that seemed vaguely meow-like and  
seemed to indicate it wanted supper. Vaguely, she tried to remember  
whether there was any milk left. Of course there was-- there was always  
milk-- good for the teeth, of course, what was she thinking. Her parents  
had made her drink three glasses every day, growing up, just to be safe. She  
sighed and said, as brusquely as she could, "Well, hand it to me, then,  
finally. Can't you see she's hungry? Didn't you feed her?"  
  
"Er... I did give her some of my pumpkin juice-- well, I tried to-- she  
didn't seem to want it...."  
  
"And thank goodness for that! She has more sense than you, even at this  
age, obviously," Hermione said, unhooking the kitten from Ron's finger and  
carrying her off to the kitchen without looking back to see if Ron was  
following. As she stood in front of the refrigerator, pouring some milk  
into the narrowest glass she could find, she thought she may as well ask  
the obvoious. "Well, out with it then. What is it you're not telling me  
this time? What horrible accident, what awful misdeed can you be trying to  
cover up, Ron Weasley?"  
  
"Well, your birthday's coming up soon," he tried, lamely.  
  
"Yes, and last year, you got me Circe's Chocolate Frog card, two weeks too  
late, I seem to recall," Hermione said, in a reminiscing tone. "Oh, and  
with the questionable promise of going to the Forbidden Forest with me to  
gather moon-berries. You realize, moon-berries grow perfectly well in the  
grass just outside the Quidditch field, of course."  
  
"Er... well...," he mumbled, looking down as he shifted position, suddenly  
seeming a lot more unsure with every moment. "Didn't you say it's the  
thought that counts? It was something weird like that, I thought."  
  
"Yes, well, it is, when it's a sane, good thought. On the other hand,  
silly, dangerous thoughts don't really count," Hermione said with complete  
certainty. "And I have a definite feeling this is also one of those,  
wouldn't you say," she pressed.  
  
"Is not! I have a perfectly good reason for this. Hagrid said...," he  
began, and then stopped half-way. "Harry said...." Hermione wasn't  
looking any friendlier, so he tried, "I really wanted to... make it up to  
you, you know?"  
  
"Hmm," Hermione said, noncommitally.  
  
"I didn't mean it. I wasn't thinking, really. It's just... I can't take it  
anymore, you don't even think of me at all, do you? It's always Viktor,  
Viktor every day! I have feelings too, you know, and you're ignoring me  
and you don't even want me around anymore, now that you've got all these  
newer, better friends...."  
  
For a minute, Hermione didn't do anything, but then she took out some soda  
cans from the hidden compartment in the fridge where her parents thought  
she wasn't devious enough to look, and gestured to the table. It was  
getting to be a proper summer morning, bright and warm, and all the  
greenery in the baskets hanging from the ceiling was turning toward the  
sun. Snitch promptly curled up on top of some fruit in a bowl on the  
table, with light streaming down on her from the skylight, and started  
purring. Hermione stifled a smile, thinking that Ron probably wouldn't  
appreciate her taking things lightly at this point. She sat down in the  
chair across from him, and concentrated on turning her can between her  
palms, and the strange patterns she could see in the white lacey  
tablecloth. One of them looked like it could be an owl. Quite a few looked  
like hearts and flowers.  
  
"So what are you trying to say, exactly?" she said, finally. Hermione  
realized she was just stalling, but she really had no idea how to handle  
this all of a sudden. At least she wasn't blushing. In fact she probably  
wasn't any different than usual in any way whatsoever. Nothing out of the  
ordinary happened, really, just Ron and some more of his insane antics.  
She looked up. Ron wasn't drinking the soda, though the opener was broken  
off, and he was twirling it on his pinkie absentmindedly. What he -was-  
doing was staring at her, as if he'd never seen her before. The  
tongue-tied disease was apparently communicable, an irony which Hermione  
would've appreciated at another time.  
  
"We used to have fun, didn't we? It was just us three. And now... and  
now... Harry's busy all the time, and you're never around either, and it's  
just nothing like it used to be and I hate it, and it's stupid, and I... I  
just want it to stop. I want things to be like they were, except I don't,  
well not exactly, oh I don't know, I give up." He poked his finger  
forcefully into the can opening, and the thin metal gave way, though he  
didn't appear to notice, quite, and just started drinking fast. Soon  
enough, he was sputtering and coughing and carbonated bubbles were coming  
out of his nose. Hermione giggled. Ron looked at her balefully, flushing.  
  
"I don't see what so funny," he said, still looking like he was on the  
verge of sneezing. Hermione considered a sneeze-be-gone charm, but looking  
at Ron's indignant face, she thought better of it. She smiled at him  
instead, softly, with all the sincerity she could manage so early in the  
day.  
  
"Thank you," she said, looking at him, the smile still fluttering on her  
lips. Ron turned even redder, if that was possible, seeming completely  
bewildered now. Hermione took a deep breath and tilted her face up,  
feeling the pale sunlight bathing her eyelids and cheeks. Her parents  
were waking up right about now, she guessed, because the alarm-clock  
music had started, soft and slow, but quite startling in the stillness of  
the kitchen. It was coming down the stairs clearly, the nostalgic strains  
of some wartime lounge singer slipping languid fingers of sound into  
every nook and cranny around them. Usually, Hermione would've found it  
annoying, and quite embarrassing, but right now she just let it roll over  
her. The woman was singing in French, and Hermione was pleased that she  
could actually decipher bits and pieces, going on her knowledge of Latin.  
She wasn't one to dream of darkened rooms and filmy gowns and steamy  
kisses. Sometimes, though, she liked forgetting all the things she did by  
habit, just for a few minutes.  
  
"I never knew your parents are were... odd," Ron said, with a comical  
expression on his face, both disgusted and strangely becalmed. His hands,  
usually restless and fiddling with any little thing they could, in  
periodic attacks of antsyness, were resting, awkward and startled, on the  
tabletop.  
  
"Mm. I don't think they know, either, really," Hermione said, grinning.  
She felt peaceful, yes, and happy, and mischievous. She reached out a slim  
hand across the table, and laid it gently atop Ron's own. Ron jumped, his  
eyes riveting on the space where their hands were touching, but the music  
seemed to be still weaving its spell, and he didn't jerk it away, or start  
babbling, or laugh. His eyes opened wider, and suddenly Hermione noticed  
they were just the shade of the sky this morning. His hand was warm and  
dry, and she could feel the blood pulsing in the large veins just beneath  
the skin. He was so familiar, so easily understood and often dismissed  
and yet... something... there was something. It was like there was  
something in the air. Something sweet and just a tiny bit sour, like  
barely-ripe apples. It was both startling and always there, in the  
background. Ron had been trying to tell her something, she knew. Maybe...  
maybe he didn't need to.  
  
Her fingers curling around his hand, she lifted her arm. He was looking at  
her like maybe he was seeing her for the first time, too, and it was  
Hermione's turn to flush. Without saying anything, they both got up and  
walked around the side of the table, until they were face-to-face, and Ron  
took her other hand in his. They couldn't have said, later, who started  
it, or whose idea it was. Neither of them knew what came over them, then.  
The song had changed, and there were the usual muffled sounds of running  
water and various other noises of her parents' morning bathroom rituals.  
Hermione didn't really know what she was doing, but it felt so good, so  
right, so peaceful, just standing there, a breath away from her dear  
friend. It seemed like something she didn't realize was missing, was  
complete, now that Ron was home with her, and she wasn't inclined to  
question it, right at the moment. Right now, everything outside the circle  
of their mingling breath seemed so very far away. Her mind was in a  
pleasant sort of daze, and Hermione was feeling warm and unbelievably  
content.  
  
And then he wrapped an arm around her waist, and pulled her to him, as the  
music gave another swell. Just like that, and they were dancing, and her  
head dipped down onto his shoulder, heavy and buzzing with pleasure and  
warmth, almost like she was sleepy, though she wasn't. She was breathing  
deeply, and feeling Ron's chest rise and fall gently against hers, almost  
hypnotic and almost beautiful and it was enough, for now.  
  
"So let's go," he whispered, barely audible, in her ear.  
  
"Yes," she said. Closing her eyes, she could almost feel the breeze  
lifting her into the sky already. When her parents came down for  
breakfast, chatting amiably about the latest developments in the  
tooth-whitening business, they would be greeted by the meows of a scruffy,  
orange, and very startled, rudely woken kitten. Hermione thought about  
this, and some other futures for a second, her chin resting on Ron's  
shoulder, finding them somewhat unexpectedly charming, and notable for  
their lack of expected doom. "Might as well," she added, laughing.  
~~ 


End file.
